


a roar isn't an intimidation technique, it's a warning

by Canonymous



Category: Red vs Blue
Genre: wash is low key a badass tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canonymous/pseuds/Canonymous
Summary: Agent Washington is not to be underestimated.





	a roar isn't an intimidation technique, it's a warning

**Author's Note:**

> have fun

The first mission they bring the new kid on, obviously, goes horribly wrong.

South is busy performing makeshift first-aid on her brother- North’s leg has been shot in three different places, effectively immobilizing him and Carolina, who relies on his intel as a sniper. He’s had to stop shooting, which means Carolina’s getting reckless and punching her way back _out_ of the building they were so close to getting information from. Maine was stalling at the door so they didn’t seal it off, locking the two of them inside, and the rookie, of course, is nowhere to be seen.

“Where the hell is our teammate?” Carolina growls vehemently on their private channel.

He moves to check the motion sensors but remembers all at once those don’t mark friendly signatures yet. He grinds his teeth, biting his tongue to stop from telling Carolina to calm the fuck down. “Give us five minutes, I’ll find him,” he tells her, dropping from the roof where he, Connie, and North are perched. 

Three feet from the door is the rookie’s DMR, with the little yellow stripe he was so proud of having painted on. York thinks he might be sick. _Fuck, kid._ York ducks past Maine, who barely even looks over- just tosses him an Insurrectionist furiously swiping with a knife. He twists the weapon back around and jams it sloppily into the enemy’s throat, darting past two more to get inside. He’s lucky there’s no lock or his five minutes would really be out. “He’s out a weapon!” he informs the team to a chorus of various distressed sounds.

He ducks to the side, tracing the sounds of fighting best he can to another room off the main hallway- the kid can’t be at the target, his job was to stick to the outskirts of the fight and pick off stragglers. He goes left and swings into another hallway, listening closely for any sign o-  
_CRASH._

Well. He supposes that’s where the kid must be, likely under something heavy and metal that made a clang like that. 

Washington wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission, really- the Director had told them in a furiously clipped tone that if they couldn’t handle a mission, his _main team couldn’t get this through,_ maybe one of the lower level kids could show them up. York has a feeling it was something personal by the look Washington and the Director exchanged as he introduced him.

He figures this is probably what the Director wanted.

He finally turns a corner and pulls himself into the next room over, his best guess as to the source of the noise- Carolina’s yelling in his ear about how, _“If we don’t find him within the minute, we’re leaving!”_ and there’s a chorus of furious chattering in protest just as he sees him.

Washington is on his knees at a massive soldier’s side. There’s blood _everywhere,_ splashed across his armor and face. His helmet is at his side, hanging loosely in his grip. He looks up at York as he enters, brow furrowing in confusion. “Hey, hey!” he interrupts the squabbling on the radio, “Everybody cool it, I found the kid. Wash, you alive?”

“He dead?” Maine grunts. 

“What the fuck? No, why would I say I found him if he was-”

“York?” Washington asks, tilting his head and brushing blood from his eyes. He glances down at the hulk of an Insurrectionist, crushed beneath rubble big enough York wonders how the everloving fuck he managed that. “Uh, I have the..” he searches for the word for a moment before seemingly giving up and moving toward his helmet, hand reaching around inside until he brandishes the aforementioned object:

The hard-drive. The _objective_ , the thing they were here for in the first place. 

He clicks on the radio. “He has the objective,” he informs them slowly. 

“Why the _fuck_ doesn’t he have his radio on?” South demands furiously, a disbelievingly edge to her rough voice. York relays the message and watches Washington wince.

“It’s kind of.. broken. The radio, anyway, I’m sure it still works as a helmet, probably-” he sighs dramatically as he shows the accused helmet to York. There’s a massive dent in the side of the earpiece, where he radio’s functions were centered, and faint, wispy smoke puffs up from it. “Can you help me with, uh, my leg? I think it’s dislocated.”

“His radio’s smashed to shit,” he tells the team, “and his leg’s fucked over. Can I get a teammate for extraction or what?”

 _“York,”_ Carolina grinds out. He can almost see her face growl it at him.

“ _I mean,_ formal request for super secret special ops backup?”

Washington, evidently sick of waiting for York, kicks his leg out in front of him, balancing the disrupted joint precariously against the smoother side of the metal object pinning what remains of the Insurrectionist’s head and shoving forward. The leg makes a sound that is more akin to a pop than anything else and Washington bites his lip.

“Ow,” he says, lamely. York throws his hands up before pulling the DMR from where he’d placed it on his back, offering it to Washington carefully. The rookie smiles at the sight of it, tracing the yellow mark and putting it safely in position in his arms. “Sweet,” he murmurs idly.

“Okay, we really need to leave,” York warns him, and he nods, scrambling to get to his unsteady feet and put back on the damaged helmet. Washington winces at the weight on his sort-of-fucked-up leg, testing it carefully before deeming it worthy of movement. “Got it. Let’s go.”

Getting out proves an easier job than getting in, maybe because the worry gnawing at the back of his mind isn’t clouding his vision anymore. Wash directs him smoothly through the halls, back toward the entrance and shooting a finger guns at Maine. There’s a muffled, “Told ya so,” as they get back to the rooftop, where a furious South immediately starts back up screaming. 

“Fucking _Director_ sending us _kids_ to work with, God damn motherfucker son of a-”

“Did you really get it?” Connie asks Wash skeptically, looking him up and down. He nods, pulling the flash drive from a storage slot in the side of his armor and shoving it into her hands instead. 

“Just so you know, that thing is basically a target. The big guy said it has a tracking device embedded in it-” he begins warily, and she makes quick work of dissecting any compartment on the outside until she finds the little chip with a blinking red light. “And you made that look really easy. It was stuck on there, okay?”

“Suuure,” Connie half-laughs.

“I loosened it!” he shrieks back, grinning. He doesn’t look a day over twenty. North makes a noise of distress as a blur of cyan vaults over the rooftop and levels them all with a long look. She doesn’t say a word, simply snatches the flash drive as her lips quirk into a half-smile. Her shoulders slump a little with relief, and she looks over at Washington, who’s stuck between grinning proudly and shuffling his feet anxiously.

“You’re alright, Rookie,” she decides, nodding solemnly at him just as the Pelican swoops slowly down on the roof top- and Washington’s face is priceless.

**Author's Note:**

> this is loosely based off this post http://papanorth.tumblr.com/post/149375491696/everyones-small-cute-son-with-such-terrible


End file.
